


One Heart to Carry On

by buckybleeds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Body Fluids of Questionable Provenance As Lube, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Come as Lube, Crying, Dacryphilia, Dissociation, Face-Fucking, HYDRA Trash Party, Healing, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Non-Consensual Bondage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Snot as Lube, Spit As Lube, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, implied past steve/rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27145973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: Rumlow forces Steve to watch him assault the Soldier, then forces the Soldier to assault Steve, then at some point after that Steve and Bucky are starting to be okay. Feat. Much Crying.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 75
Collections: Dacryphilia Dog Days -





	1. C'mon, baby, let me hear you cry now

**Author's Note:**

> Titles taken from the incredibly great ? and the Mysterians song '96 Tears'

Brock was enjoying the sight of Steve Rogers, widely recognized sanctimonious prick, bent over a bench on his hands and knees and vibrating with rage like an offended Pomeranian.

He was, however, somewhat more engrossed with the vision of perfection that was the Winter Soldier's tear-slicked face turning bright red as it was skull-fucked into unconsciousness.

The stupid thing never stayed out long but Brock had this part down to a science. He threaded his fingers into the Soldier's hair so that his grip wouldn't slip on the increasingly gross mess of drool and spit and tears (and sometimes, on very special days, blood) and held its head in place while he forced himself into its throat. He'd let the Soldier sputter and cry while its thrashing tongue and fluttering esophagus enveloped his cock in deliriously rich sensations until the motions calmed and the Soldier's head grew heavy in Brock's hands, the dumb lunk too oxygen-starved to stay upright. 

That's when Brock would pull back and watch the swollen red lips tremble as the asset panted for air. When it stopped swaying and could focus its steaming eyes on its handler once more, Brock would shove back in and start the cycle all over again. 

On a good day he could keep the Soldier dizzy and senseless for hours, teasing himself and staying on edge while its face turned red and its eyes went blank. 

But today wasn't a good day - it was a great day. Brock was playing with his favorite toy and getting himself ready to blow his load all over its eyelashes and Captain America was losing his shit over it, so pissed off that his angry flush was turning his pretty tits pink, and so well restrained that he didn't even have enough leverage to hurt himself. 

Cap wasn't talking to Brock, he'd refused to answer any questions or volunteer any information, but that didn't stop Brock from talking to Cap.

"He used to be real good at giving head, you know," he said as the Soldier sagged in Brock's hands, "it took a long time to fix that, teach him how to be clumsy. Teams used to line up for hours to get a turn when the asset was out of the icebox. Now that he's messy about it nobody wants him but me."

Brock wasn't sure if Rogers had growled or if that was merely wishful thinking. He pushed his thumbs into the corners of the asset's mouth and pinched hard into the meat of its cheeks, forcing a whine out of it as he dragged the mouth onto him with his new grip. The Soldier was trying to sob around the intrusion but kept choking on the inhale, creating a rhythmic suction that was nearly hypnotically distracting. 

Rogers tried to surreptitiously flex and test the bench, which was a little like trying to surreptitiously wrangle some boulders into doing the cancan. Brock sneered at him. 

"The more you try to fight the bench the harder it's going to hold you down, Einstein. The miracles of modern nanotechnology beat the miracles of seventy-year-old genetic engineering, big guy."

Cap didn't answer and it wasn't like the Soldier was going to say anything. It knew better than to talk with its mouth full.

* * *

Steve was not generally a person who spent a lot of time plotting the downfall of his enemies and lovingly envisioning their slow and painful deaths, but he figured he could make an exception for Brock Rumlow.

He'd made a lot of exceptions for Brock. Nobody was Steve's commander in the field. Except Brock.

Nobody knew that Steve was a sarcastic, suicidal little shit. Except Brock. 

Nobody went out with Steve and got shown a good time. Except Brock. 

Nobody came home with Steve and got shown a good time. Except Brock. 

Nobody saw Steve cry. Except Brock. 

Nobody deserved to be vivisected and have their intestines crocheted into a tea cozy while they watched. Except Brock. 

Because nobody in the twenty-first century knew that Steve Rogers had been obsessively, deliriously in love with Bucky Barnes except Brock goddamned Rumlow and Brock goddamned Rumlow was cheerfully raping an impossibly alive Bucky Barnes and forcing Steve to watch. 

Steve wanted to scream and rage and tear down walls and the world and more than anything he wanted to grab ahold of Bucky and never, ever let him go. Unfortunately all that Steve could do at the moment was try to look for a way to get loose and clench his jaw to clamp down on the gibbering torrent of fury that Brock so clearly wanted to provoke out of him. 

* * *

The Soldier was not having a good day. 

Generally if the Soldier was having a day at all it was not a good one because all the Soldier's best days were the days they froze it and locked it in the ice where they couldn't kill it in pieces and it got to dream cold dreams of dead things. 

Now it was not in the ice and one of its dead things was glaring poison at its handler while the handler killed it a little then brought it back to life to kill it a little again. 

The Soldier didn't like the salty, painful taste in its mouth, it didn't like the way the dead thing stared at its handler, it didn't like its handler and it didn't like being warm and awake and alive. 

But what the Soldier liked was completely immaterial. So it made itself gag and twitch because that was what the handler liked. It didn't know what the dead thing liked so it ignored the dead thing and hoped that it wasn't real. 

The Soldier wondered if maybe today the handler would finally kill it for good. The handler had killed it a little a lot; its face was hot and wet and miserable, its nose was stuffed and running at the same time, and thick, stringy spit ran down its chin to its chest. All the mucous membranes in its skull were swollen and overworked, it would only have to let itself get killed a little while longer than normal in order to get killed for good. 

It was considering trying to achieve that aim when the handler pulled his cock out of the Soldier's mouth and ejaculated on the Soldier's face before he smiled at it and spoke. 

"You've been so good lately, sweetheart." The Soldier blinked water and come out of its eyes and considered ripping out its own heart with its perfect left hand. 

"I think you've earned a nice reward."

Sometimes the handlers presented the Soldier with alive things and instructed it to put its dick or hand or hands or gun into those alive things until they became dead things. 

The dead thing was already dead, but 'I think you've earned a nice reward' was the passphrase for the stick-your-useless-fucking-prick-into-the-goddamned-prisoner-soldier subroutines. 

The Soldier rose and moved to kneel behind the dead thing. 

Unusually for a dead thing it was restrained and moving. The Soldier ignored that. It was certain the thing was dead. It couldn't be alive. It was too terrible to be allowed to be alive. 

The Soldier looked up at its handler. Sometimes it was instructed to stick-your-useless-fucking-prick-into-that-goddamned-prisoner-soldier but was not supposed to make the prisoner a dead thing. If that was the case a handler would provide instructions and, in some cases, lubricant. It wasn't sure what the protocol was with dead things. 

"Wipe that mess off your fucking face and use that to wet him up."

The Soldier scraped its metal hand over its chin and under its nose to gather moisture and clean up its fucking face. The handler told it to stop with its hand over its face. 

"Blow your fucking nose, all that sniffing is disgusting," the handler said. When the Soldier did as it was instructed its hand was unpleasantly and slimily wet with a mixture of fluids from itself and its handler. "There you go, sweetheart, now you've got enough to ride him without chafing up your cock."

It followed the implicit instruction and inserted two fingers of its dripping hand into the dead thing's anus. 

* * *

Steve had made the executive decision to pretend that exactly none of this was happening. 

Well. 

Okay. 

"Bucky is alive" was allowed to continue happening and "you are dropping Brock like a hot potato" was happening but everything else was not.

He wasn't feeling cold, slimy fingers inside of himself. Brock wasn't in the corner grinning at him like a hyena while occasionally correcting Bucky's actions like he expected his instructions to be followed to the letter. Bucky wasn't following his instructions to the letter. Something larger and hotter and hurting wasn't being forced into him. 

None of this was happening. It was all somewhere else, it had to be, because Steve was somewhere else and right now that was just how he liked it. 

* * *

The dead thing was much warmer and more responsive than dead things usually were. The Soldier shifted uncomfortably on its knees as it obeyed the handler and fucked that tight ass wide open.

The Soldier could see the muscles in the dead thing's back shift as it strained against the polymer encasing its arms and strapping its legs and waist in place. Its struggles sent waves of sensation through the Soldier as the dead thing's body clenched and released with its movements. 

The Soldier allowed itself to luxuriate in that feeling for a moment before pulling out of the dead thing completely and fucking back into it in one savage push. That made the dead thing clench pleasantly too, but also forced a choked little whimper out of it that immediately made the Soldier wish it froze like water so that it could melt away instead of coming back.

"Make it hurt," the handler said. 

The Soldier did. It was good at following orders, even if it was terrible at everything else.


	2. Too many teardrops for one heart to be crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhhhhhh okay pretty much all the italicized bits are references to the scene in Hamlet where Ophelia is fragile and mad and handing out flowers.

The living room was empty when Steve came home, the comfortable brownstone comfortably quiet. 

Steve liked the city better when it was loud, honestly. 

He checked his phone again. 

"Bad day. Come home. I'm sorry."

He glanced into the empty kitchen, knowing it would be full of warm smells and the clattering noise of a lived-in home if Bucky were in there, then mounted the stairs. 

The studio was empty, too, as was Bucky's workshop-yoga-computer den. Their bed was rumpled but didn't have Bucky in it. Steve was getting ready to head up to the little garden on the roof when he heard the splash. 

He'd skipped the bathroom because he hadn't heard the shower. Bucky was scared of standing water and didn't much care for tile or chrome so he didn't tend to linger in the enormous bathroom, but Steve poked his head in and saw Bucky and his breath caught in his chest. 

A tub big enough for Steve to soak away his after action aches had been one of the main selling points for the house. Bucky never used it so Steve had never seen him floating in the water, his long brown hair a soft halo around his face, the whole of him glowing and blooming in the bright midmorning light that bounced around the tiles.

_Pansies, that's for thoughts_ , Steve thought nonsensically. _And rosemary for remembrance_. 

Bucky was so beautiful that sometimes Steve still couldn't believe he was real. He walked to the tub and sat carefully on the lip, letting Bucky adjust to his presence before he said anything.

Bucky was staring, wide-eyed and unseeing, at the textured plaster of the ceiling. His eyelashes were spiked with tears, eyes so red from crying that the blue of his eyes seemed to glow in contrast. 

_I'd give you some violets but they withered when my father died._

He slowly came back down to earth and when he realized Steve was sitting next to him he smiled like a sunrise. 

_If he died I'd beg them to bury me, let them lay us in unconsecrated earth. A love story. A tragedy._

Steve blinked slowly. 

Sometimes the world came apart at the seams a little when he looked at Bucky. 

Bucky sat up and his halo fell away, silky hair clinging sleekly to his skull.

"Didn't expect to find you in the bath, pal. Not your usual hideout," Steve plucked Bucky's vibranium hand out of the water and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

Bucky's breathing hitched. "I felt dirty."

"You look pretty clean to me," Steve said with an affectionate leer. Bucky chuckled, and Steve felt pretty good about himself right up until the laughter translated itself into an escalating cascade of sobbing and Steve was soaking himself to the skin as he dragged Bucky out of the tub and cradled the crying man to his chest. 

"A bad day, huh?" Steve asked, and Bucky cried harder. Steve helped him into a robe and carried him to bed, snuggling up behind him and making little soothing conversations with himself until the crying jag settled into a deep, shaky breath every couple minutes. 

"You wanna tell me what you think this is about?"

Bucky curled tighter into himself. 

"I remembered. They brought you to me. Brock brought you to me."

Steve had a lot of practice not having panic attacks. He took in slow, measured breaths through his nose; he focused on the physical sensations around him. He could never predict what Bucky would remember, but usually what Bucky remembered was a nightmare riot of torture and murder so having a lot of practice not having panic attacks came in handy on a pretty regular basis. 

"He did," Steve said firmly. "He brought me to you then assaulted you while I watched. And then he gave you orders to assault me while he touched himself."

He'd found that blunt honesty unfettered by moralizing or editorializing did the best job of keeping Bucky in a functional headspace. If he tried to hide things to protect Bucky that just made him wonder if the rest of the world was hiding things from him too.

Bucky rolled over and petted the blonde scruff on Steve's chin. He kissed Steve's nose and tugged lightly at Steve's hair, turning his face into the light. 

Steve accepted the inspection, showing Bucky that his face wasn't bruised and his throat wasn't slit. 

Bucky wasn't relaxing. His muscles were getting tighter, actually. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, "I'm so sorry that I could ever - Steve - why didn't - they should have killed me, sweetheart, after what I did to you, hell, you should have -"

Steve couldn't stand it anymore. He leaned forward and kissed Bucky. 

_They bore him barefaced on the bier, hey nonny nonny, hey nonny, and in his grave rained many a tear._

Steve covered Bucky's lips gently with his own, licking out just a little and tasting the salt of Bucky's tears on his tongue. He brought his hands up to cup Bucky's head and soothed his thumbs over the high cheekbones, brushing away the wetness there. 

_The world is overrun with rue everywhere we've set our feet_ , Steve thought, _we're starved for grace_. 

"I'm not letting you fall alone again, Buck," he said, and settled in to let Bucky cry until it didn't hurt either of them quite so much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The. Uh. Ophelia thing. 
> 
> It makes more sense if you're familiar with this painting: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ophelia_(painting)#/media/File:John_Everett_Millais_-_Ophelia_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg
> 
> Like, Bucky is in the bath crying and lost and the first thing Steve thinks of (aside from how beautiful Bucky is) is that painting.


End file.
